


Red Riding Hood and the Wolf

by coaldustcanary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Fairy Tales, Future Fic, Gen, community: asoiaf_exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lord of the Rainwood tells a bedtime story about a clever princess, her noble knight, and the big, bad wolf. It doesn't go as one might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sternflammenden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/gifts).



> Written for the Summer 2012 round of asoiaf_exchange.

The Lord of the Rainwood had long ago found he enjoyed the storms that gave his lands their name, to his surprise. No sailor loved storms, not truly, though often enough a smuggler had given his thanks for the arrival of a sudden squall – rarely was the determination of a pursuing ship’s captain as strong as the will of a smuggling vessel’s crew to survive. Smugglers would oft press on where king’s men would falter, the desperation to save their own skins driving them into danger more swiftly than any lash could propel an oarsman. The cover of storms, like the cover of night or fog, had saved his hide many times while also putting it at great risk. He and the Storm God had a fine and mutually respectful understanding. But that was not why he welcomed the storms that washed down on his lands, sometimes seemingly without pause during the autumn torrents that would precede winter’s arrival.

It was the echo of driving rain on the stone of his keep, a rushing roar that reminded him forcefully of the sea itself, which would steadily drown out his turmoil-wrought thoughts on nights such as these. It would take time. The waking dreams of old men were uneasy – never had he dreamed fretfully while swinging in a net hammock in the belly of the _Cobblecat_ , nor during scant hours slept in the captain’s berth on _Black Betha_. But now, on this night, settled in his stout keep, surrounded by his kin, and having passed on the burdens of his responsibilities long ago, he was a minor lord of minor lands with too many memories. Some few were sweet, to be sure, but altogether too many were colored with uneasiness and regret. He wondered, briefly, if other men who had served as Hand of the King were plagued with such memories, until he remembered that they were all dead men – Kevan and Tywin Lannister, Ned Stark, Jon Arryn, and the last Dragon King’s castoffs all had perished, either in service or not long after. It put his long years of service in a strange light, to be compared to those men. None of them enjoyed the respite he did now - the time to watch another generation pick up the reins of rule.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, a silent voice mocked the gift. _And yet, what reward was it, to outlive his king?_ The question tightened his chest and he prayed silently for the steady fall of the rain to conjure a better remembrance. By all rights he should have died first – on the Blackwater, perhaps, or on the block in White Harbor, or washed on the shores of Skagos, or, gods be good, at the Wall. He was older than Stannis, certainly, but it was his king who went on to the gods’ reward first – even after twenty-seven years of honorable, strong rule, His Grace had gone to his end unsatisfied with all that he had accomplished, always expecting more of himself, and unwilling to pass on the burden of the crown he had taken up out of duty to anyone, least of all one he loved.

Davos opened his eyes, the dimness of his thoughts pushed back by the glow of candles that banished shadows from his sanctuary. As the keep was raised, years ago, he had directed that this room be built – a private place as small and snug as his cabin berth had once been, not at all like a high lord’s fine solar. In truth, there was rarely sunshine to light such a room in the Rainwood, so this room had only one small glazed window, and it remained carefully lit with candles cunningly designed to protect the contents of the room from the drip of wax or the touch of smoke. A sturdy chair, a small desk, and shelves lined with books, scrolls and maps were the only things he kept safe here. And letters, all the correspondence, of great importance and the most minor observances, from all the years he had been in His Grace’s service.

He ran his fingers lightly over the folded letter on the desk, the most recent of all, brought on raven’s wings from Devan. It never ceased to amaze him how much pleasure reading brought him. He had been dubious about those first lessons, painstakingly deciphering each quill-scratch with the patient help of the maester, but now, when his strength and his mind’s quickness were not what they once were, his eyes still could see. Even at a distance, Devan’s letters kept him abreast of what went on in King’s Landing. Maester Garreth’s ravens brought news of great happenings and major events across Westeros, but Devan shared much of court, all the whispers and politics he both loathed and missed.

The first soft taps at his door were so faint that he nearly missed them in the rushing current of the rainfall. But…ah, there, again – a faltering, erratic rapping.

“Come on then,” he called out, pitching his voice just loud enough to hear beyond the room. “And be quick, or she’ll catch you.” Nearly before the first syllable left his lips, the door latch clicked and the three small figures slipped inside the door, shutting it behind them in haste.

“We won’t be caught. Septa Neryssa doesn’t like the stairs,” protested their leader with a confident smile. Rolland was Steffon’s eldest boy, though he had his Northern mother’s dark hair and eyes, ever-gleaming with barely-suppressed mischief. His sister, Alys, was close on his heels, but she looked over her shoulder warily, not having Rolland’s confidence that they would not be found out by the long-suffering septa. Their cousin, his own son Stannis’s daughter, Dalla, was the last to appear, her fair hair mostly slipped loose from its braids, her solemn expression suggesting some doubt regarding Rolland’s casual assurances as well.

“Septa Neryssa’s knees pain her, just like your grandfather’s do, from time to time,” he chided them, though he found himself unable to put much heat in it. They had won a victory when he had let them enter and hide, and it was beyond him to deny them much of anything, including stolen moments before they were to be put to bed. It was late, but they were restless – Rolland peered at the heavy books of history stacked on the shelves along the walls, while Alys walked small fingers across the stretch of the map half-unfurled on another shelf, her little hands flitting across the entirety of the Wall in moments. Dalla, though, came to his knee and pulled herself into his lap, her expression still serious, as sober as any priest’s. He gently tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and then gave the ear a gentle tug.

“What are you worrying about, hmm? Caught spinning about in a current, my little skiff?” he asked her, tapping the little furrow in her brow with an index finger. She smiled, a little, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Can you tell us a story, grandfather?” she asked suddenly. Rolland and Alys, perhaps having only thought to hide away from the septa for a few stolen moments, widened their eyes and turned matching looks of pleading in his direction.

“A story about knights, and battles!” demanded Rolland. “When King Stannis crushed the wildlings at the Wall! Tell us that story, about how they fought, and arrows rained down on them, and they fought until their swords broke in two!”

“No, a _story_ ,” Dalla said scornfully over her cousin’s excitement. “A story about a noble lady. Or a _queen_.” Rolland made a horrible sort of choking sound, which Davos correctly interpreted to be a strenuous objection to the promise of queenly stories.

“That’s not a good story. That’s _dull_ stuff. There are no battles in stories about _ladies_ ,” he sulked.

“Oh, aren’t there?” He looked to Alys.

“What about you, sweetling – what sort of story do you want to hear tonight?” he asked gently. She glanced sidelong at her brother, before replying hastily, almost as if she could hear Rolland’s objection before he could voice it.

“A story about a lady…and her knight. A noble, true knight who loves her,” she implored. Dalla nodded her fervent agreement while Rolland looked pained and groaned. Davos let out his breath in a long, thoughtful sigh, and leaned back into his chair. Some memories were both painful and sweet, all at once. But this would be a better distraction than even the rain.

“A lady and her knight. Her noble, true knight. I think I know such a story. There may even be a battle in it, _if_ certain listeners can contain their complaints, hmm?” For all his quick brashness, Rolland was a clever boy. His jaw snapped shut on his protests immediately, and he leaned on the desk eagerly, his eyes alight, while Alys perched on the arm of his chair with a shy smile.

“Once, a long time ago, there lived a wise and just king, who had only one child, a sweet, clever daughter…”

*****

“My Lord Davos, I need your aid.”

The woman strode into the room draped in an elegant red gown and cloak of the same color, the rich fabric trailing behind her as she approached him, confidence in her every step. Her hair hung heavy and loose to her waist, and her eyes boasted of every assurance she possessed that he would accede to her wishes. In a sense, she held his loyalty as much as the King’s, and so she had no reason to doubt. He rose to his feet from behind his heavy desk, inlaid with the Hand’s symbol at each corner, to receive her.

“Princess Shireen, every ship I can muster is at your disposal, as always,” he said, bowing, the action never quite as smooth as he wished. Her expressions were often uncannily like those of her father, though not the gentle, crooked smile she granted him as she gestured for him to dispense with the formalities. Her features were strong and perhaps uncommonly hard for a woman, even one as tall and broad of shoulder as she. The grayscale’s ravages were impossible to hide, and she made no effort to try – even the fair side of her face could not honestly mark her as a beauty. But only a true detractor could claim her smile wasn’t charming, rarely bestowed as it was.

“His Grace is very wroth with me, I am afraid,” she began, shaking her head, loose waves of black hair rippling over her shoulders.

“I can hardly believe that, Princess. Wroth, I can believe well enough. With you, never.”

“And yet, he is very angry, and I am afraid I am the cause,” she said, lacing her fingers together at her waist.

“I have begged him to allow me to go with him on his Progress to the Wall. It is only right that I be there with him when he honors Lord Commander Snow for his loyal service to the realm. You know how the smallfolk still cannot seem to bring themselves to love him, and Mother is no help in such matters, even if she did not keep to her chambers all night and day. You know I can be, though – I can hold myself a little less distant, and smooth the way with the smallfolk and the small lords alike. He _needs_ me,” she said firmly. Davos held up both hands and dipped his head, acknowledging the truth of it.

“And I have advised him to allow you to come, Princess, but he is adamant that you stay here in King’s Landing – you are his only heir, and he sees the trip as a potential risk. If the realm should lose you both…”

“It is not like to happen with the small army he has arranged for this journey. Not to mention the entirety of the Kingsguard surrounding us – or do you not trust your own son to protect us?” she asked with contrived innocence.

“My Devan – Sir Devan – I am certain protects you as well or better than any of his sworn brothers, but there is still the risk to be considered,” he said, shaking his head.

“And if Father and I were both to die, I know very well that you have a document ready, sealed in secret, to legitimize my cousin Edric and make him a Baratheon in truth and _my_ heir,” she replied tartly. “The realm would hardly suffer for it. He’s a fine man, and would make a fair king if need be. Besides, it will not happen. We will be as safe as we are in the Red Keep. The North holds my father in great esteem, even if they do not love him. What is it they say? _They remember._ ” Shireen fixed him with a steady stare.

“You need to advise him once again, my lord. He has always needed your advice, and once he has moved on from his anger, he will see the sense of what I have done,” she continued. For the first time in many moons, Davos felt a twinge of an ache where his fingers had once been, quite certain he was not entirely about to agree with whatever the princess had done to force her father’s hand in this matter. He gazed at her across the wide oaken desk.

“And what have you done, Princess?” he forced himself to ask.

“I have been to the High Priest of the Lord of Light and asked for his blessing and prayers for our journey. Very public prayers, a great night of bonfires, that sort of thing,” she said easily, smiling slightly once again. “I will be attending all of the services, of course.” Davos grimaced. It would be difficult for Stannis to gainsay her presence on the trip after a very public display of piety and preparation. And if she had planned as well as he expected she had…

“And then, of course, I went to the High Septon, and invoked his blessing, as well,” she continued, holding up the edge of her vivid cloak to show him that the scarlet garment was fully lined – in white silk, bordered in a rainbow embroidery. “There will also be a seven-day of public prayers for the safe travel, continued reign, and glory of the King and his heir. I will attend those as well.” She clasped both her hands together in front of her chest and affected a meek expression.

“I will be quite well known for my devotions, soon enough. And to cancel it would be to offend the gods. All of them,” she said, tutting softy as if it was truly unfortunate.

Davos sighed. His Grace would not be pleased.

*****

“She can’t do that! Everyone has to listen to the King,” Rolland interjected, dismayed by the princess’s audacity.

“Oh, and do you always listen to your father, Rolly?” Dalla shot back before Davos could even collect his thoughts enough to reply.

“But he’s not the King!” Rolland cried. Davos struggled not to laugh, smiling faintly.

“Sometimes kings are fathers, too.”

*****

His Grace was, in fact, quite dismayed by his daughter. Davos stood next to the princess as Stannis stalked back and forth across the ornate sitting room of his chambers like a caged animal, not deigning to look at either of them as he paced.

“When have I ever cared for making decisions to please lesser men?” Stannis asked sharply. Shireen opened her mouth to make a retort but Davos managed to silence her with a sharp look before Stannis looked in her direction. It was just as well. The king was not yet finished speaking.

“I honor the gods enough for propriety’s sake and give my respect to the men who claim to speak for them, but never will I let their edicts or expectations dictate my life, yours, or the fate of these kingdoms! Let them have their fires and their prayers; I am touched by their concern for my well-being. You will remain here, within the Red Keep.” Finally, Stannis looked to his daughter, his weathered face set in hard lines. “This is foolishness, Shireen.”

“It is not. My lady mother’s poor health will keep her in King’s Landing, but I am neither fragile nor foolish, and I ought to go with you. How will the people know me for their future queen when you hide me away? How will they think to trust you when you act as though you must protect me from them? Some men aspire to the brains given to chickens, but others are not so stupid.” She lifted her chin, and then looked at Davos. The Hand of the King looked back impassively.

“You agree with me, Lord Davos, do you not? You must see the sense in my words. I know you have spies among the the smallfolk and lords alike. I do not doubt that the whispers will rise anew, if they ever died down to begin with. That somehow the grayscale has disfigured me more than ever, and I am turning all-over the color of the Iron Throne. If they do not trust me now, when the time comes they will try to put Edric in my place, or Ser Gendry.” Shireen’s mouth set in a thin line as she spoke the words, and Davos could not deny the truth of it, though he remained silent in the face of the king’s immediate displeasure. Stannis would have none of it.

“Bastards, both of them – you are my trueborn heir.” The king’s teeth were grinding hard in his jaw. Davos could hear it from halfway across the room.

“Yes, father, but they are both men, and even if some doubt Ser Gendry is Robert’s son, Edric’s blood is hardly in question. Even if he would never want it, there are lords enough to put him in my place if they chose. If I was lucky, they would only force us to wed, but he would be the king in every way. The power would be in his hands, not mine. What have you been raising me for, if not to take on the responsibility of all Seven Kingdoms in due time? I will not wed my cousin for any reason,” she said.

“If I ordered it, you would. That would be your reason,” Stannis retorted. He was not a man given to dramatic gestures or posturing, but Davos saw his king’s fisted hand come down deliberately, slowly on the back of a fragile chair which creaked slightly under the pressure.

“But you would not, Your Grace,” Davos interjected abruptly. “The Princess’s cousins, while good men, are, as you say, bastard-born. Their legitimacy always would rest on a piece of paper. Besides, Edric has a touch too much of Robert’s careless nature to make a strong king, and Ser Gendry Waters is, I am told, lately married himself.” He did not mention to whom, and luckily Stannis did not ask. That would be a distraction this discussion hardly needed. He plowed on ahead.

“As your man, your Hand, and one you have always asked to speak plainly, I must say, Your Grace – I agree with the Princess Shireen. I believe she ought to come on the Progress to the Wall, for all of the reasons she’s said and more besides, especially one.” He paused long enough to see the look of elation on Shireen’s face and wistfully hope she might turn a pleasant look on him someday again.

“Your Grace should, upon his return to King’s Landing, announce the Princess’s betrothal.” Both sets of royal blue eyes, normally impenetrable in their reserve, turned on him in perplexity.

“Bethrothed? To whom am I betrothed?” Shireen cried.

“Speak plainly, Davos. What have you planned?” the king asked, his gray brows drawn down like dangerously-edged blades across his face. Davos tightened his shortened fingers in a fist restlessly, choosing his words with care.

“The Princess is one and twenty, long past the age when she should have been betrothed, if not wedded and blessed with children. Because Princess Shireen is going to be ruling long and well as a woman for the first time in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, her choice of royal consort will be of great importance. Truth be told, Your Grace – most kings only need only choose a fertile wife who makes a strong alliance for their sons’ marriages. You and your heir need to choose somewhat more carefully,” Davos said. It was a topic that had been too easily put aside for too long, now. If His Grace had a weakness, it was that his surety wavered when it came to Shireen, and her alone.

“Use this trip. Whispers would deafen us all if you entertained potential marriage partners here in King’s Landing, but if you invite various young lords and knights to attend you on the Progress, no one will wonder at the reason as you honor trusted allies. Use the time to not only honor the North and the Night’s Watch, but to make a decision for the future of the realm.” He held himself as upright and still as possible, willing both Stannis and Shireen to agree. They would lock horns like a pair of stubborn goats over this without his involvement, but interfering introduced the very real risk of having them both turn on him together. In the space of a few heartbeats, he hardly dared breathe, letting the silence hang, before he realized it needed sealing, and he turned his gaze on the princess alone.

“If you insist it’s so important for you to be on this trip, and be the heir, then take this responsibility to heart, as well. It is no less important, and likely it is more.”

When he saw her jaw set, in the same way her father would when he spoke of the burden of a crown, he knew he had her.

*****

“So the princess got to pick out her husband?” Alys demanded, looking dubious.  
“That’s what the king agreed to, within reason,” Davos said. 

“Sometimes it’s the best way. Your parents had the choice of one another and I thought that was just fine. And yours, Dalla, too,” he added.

“Will we get to choose who we marry?” Dalla asked, inevitably. The other two children looked quite concerned about the matter as well, and Davos could not help but wonder if his sons would be less than pleased about this story being told.

“That will be up to your mother and father, of course,” he said sternly. “But you are all very small to be worrying about that quite yet.” It wasn’t an entirely truthful statement, but it would do for now.

“I’m don’t want a wife,” Rolland declared. “I’m just going to be a knight, like Ser-Uncle Devan. Or maybe I’ll serve the realm at the Wall!” Davos could not help but marvel at the boy’s wish. In living memory, the Wall had once been the home of the cursed and the criminal, with just a tiny fraction of noble members. Now younger sons of many houses served at the Wall with great honor. The Black Brothers had changed, and he shook his head a bit as he reached out and tapped the boy between the eyes with a forefinger.

“Perhaps you will, but that will be a story for children when you are my age, my boy, so listen. The princess had quite a lot of decisions to make.”

*****

In the King’s war room, Davos stood with Stannis and Shireen with all the grimness and determination he had mustered over a decade ago as they planned to retake Westeros from the various pretender-Kings. This time, they planned to make a new king, of a sort. The massive table wrought in the shape of the Seven Kingdoms stretched out before them, foreboding in its expansive emptiness.

“Dorne,” Davos said, to begin the discussion. It was enough to strike sparks to the tinder.

“No,” grated Stannis. “We have no need to consider any Dornish suitor. They still chafe at my rule and dream of dragons. We need not adopt the Targaryen custom of wedding the Dornish. Besides, the Martell boy is already wed.” Unspoken but unforgettable, too, was the fact that the girl born of Lannister incest, once princess of the Seven Kingdoms, remained in Sunspear as the boy’s paramour. The situation was a sour one, but the persuasion of Davos and others whom the king trusted had convinced him to let the situation be nearly a decade past, but it still rankled. Still, the Dornish had once tried, and failed, to raise her as Queen. Now they would never try it again, nor let another make the attempt. She was safe enough, whelping little Sandcats for Trystane Martell.

“What about the Daynes?” Shireen pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Ned Dayne is still unwed, is he not?” Davos could not see that anything about this made her eager or excited, but she had a good head for both history and had near memorized the living families of every noble house and a number of knightly houses by the time she was fifteen years old. To be certain, after the wars this was not so much of a feat as it had once been, but the memories served her well now. She looked to Davos for confirmation of her assertion. He had been to Dorne only two years past to treat with Princess Arianne, and ought to know.

“Unless he has wed very recently, or in secret, you are right. He holds Dawn, now, and is called the Sword of the Morning,” he confirmed. Personally, Davos thought the house’s obsession and self-stylings regarding the star-made sword rather too affected, even for one as old in blood and tradition as the Daynes, but it was hard to find a man who would speak poorly of Edric Dayne. Both he and Shireen looked to Stannis, who inclined his head slightly.

“Send for him. But what of the Reach? You ought to consider your cousin Ser Merrell Florent,” Stannis began. Davos hesitated in replying, but Shireen did not.

“He’s a dolt, father. Foxes are supposed to be cunning, but he’s thick. Besides, he has two bastard children already…”

“Three,” Davos muttered under his breath, just loud enough to hear. “He bedded a Cider Hall Fossoway girl he’s like to be forced to marry if her father Lord Tanton has anything to say about it. I’m sure the old lord could thrash him personally, if it came to it.” Shireen looked slightly triumphant and a touch nauseated at the same time. Stannis scowled at the map darkly.

“This would be how the Florents would repay me for being raised as overlords of the Reach. Idiocy. Well, they will have to content themselves with Highgarden and Brightwater Keep,” Stannis said coolly.

“I have another cousin who might be a better choice,” Shireen mused, chewing the edge of her thumb. When both of the men looked her way – Davos expectantly, Stannis with his customary impatience – she continued briskly.

“Lord Tarly. His mother was a Florent, too.”

“And his father never did bend the knee to me. He served Renly, then the Tyrells, then the Lannisters. He probably served every pretender there was. A hard man, though. A capable commander until the end, I am told. I remember little about his son, he was just another boy pledging his fealty. But Tarly is an old, strong house. What do you know of the boy?” Stannis asked Davos pointedly.

“Dickon Tarly. A knight, but he was too young to have fought in the wars. Capable, as his father was, it is said, and just as straightforward. He was wedded and widowed to a Riverlands girl four years past. The woman died in childbed, and the babe.” Davos closed his eyes, drawing on older memories. This part of his position had not come so easily to him as it had to little Shireen. “His elder brother is a chained maester, who serves Lord Commander Snow at the wall.” At that, Stannis snorted.

“The fat boy who stole off with the old Targaryen. Him, I remember.” Davos nodded.

“There are no living lesser branches of the Tarly tree, besides the brother at the Wall. The boy needs an heir badly.”

“I like Maester Samwell,” Shireen said. “I am sure his brother is a good man.” She smiled a little, Davos noticed. Perhaps she was not so disinterested in this process as he had thought.

*****

“That’s who the princess wanted to marry, right grandfather? She already knew in her heart that he was a good, brave knight,” Dalla said dreamily, her eyes shining. Davos gave her a hug – sliding her over to his other, less aching knee in the process while hiding a grimace. She had gotten heavier than he remembered, or perhaps he had been talking for longer than he realized.

“It might be so,” he said mildly. Shireen had ever kept the wishes of her heart close, having seen her father encase his own in iron and her mother set hers aflame only for the Lord of Light.

“These stories all go the same,” Rolland complained. “The princess and the noble knight meet and fall in love. Some terrible villain will try to keep them apart, but the knight will vanquish him to protect the lady, all while wearing her favor.” His delivery was flat, though edged with a whine.

“Girls like such boring stories.” Dalla and Alys both shot him matching looks of disdain, and Davos sighed.

“Rolly, what did I say about the potential for a battle to be part of this story? If you keep at this, there won’t be a single blade making an appearance, nor even one drop of blood,” Davos said ominously. The girls looked smug as Rolly sighed dramatically and put his face down on the desk, making a muffled noise.

“What was that?”

“I-said’m-sorry.”

“Mmm, very well. Now, where were we? Yes, the King and his trusted Hand and the Princess were choosing lords and knights for the Princess to take as her consort. They chose a star-and-sword lord, a huntsman lord, a knight of the golden tree, a turtle knight, a broken-wheel knight, and a raven-and-tree knight. Each man had a good reputation, and had kept the King’s peace. Their families were old in honor and regard, and the King and the Princess bade the King’s Hand send word to each of these men, and some others whom the King regarded well, inviting each to join them before the Progress would begin in three moons’ time…”

*****

“And what of the North, Your Grace, Princess?” Davos lifted his eyes to the top of the great map table, the vastest of the kingdoms that dwarfed the others in some respects.

“Inviting men of the North to King’s Landing just to turn around again seems foolish,” Shireen observed. “A Manderly could take ship here and then ride with us, but I do not think Lady Wynafryd has any male relatives to spare.”

“Winterfell will host us on our journey to the Wall, of course. What strength remains in the North will certainly be a part of those who welcome us,” Stannis said.

“When we leave, Davos, you will send word to the boy and let him know when we will arrive. Any Northman worth considering will be there to meet us, and might continue with us to the Wall, if we so choose.” Davos nodded his assent to the king’s command.

“Of course, Your Grace. The boy…the Lord of Winterfell is himself unwed,” he felt compelled to add. Shireen’s brow furrowed.

“But he is just a boy, and so strange, besides. I know you care for him, Lord Davos, but even _I_ hear the whispers. The stories that he is a skinchanger or sorceror are mere fantasy, of course, but everyone speaks of him as if he is a feral dog. Lady Sansa rebuilt Winterfell while he ran like a savage with his direwolf in the Wolfswood, they say,” the Princess said, with a sort of distant curiosity coloring her voice.

“They say many things, Princess. Not all of them are entirely true.”

*****

“A _warg sorcerer skinchanger direwolf_? Bloody brilliant!” Rolland was enthralled. At his outburst, Alys gasped, Dalla indignantly warned him to mind his language, and Davos growled in exasperation.

“That is _enough_ , Rolly!”

*****

The princess had left them to attend to her mother for the afternoon hour that she grudgingly granted the other woman, and only the king and Davos remained, standing over the expansive table in silence. Davos could not call it companionable silence, as much as he might wish it was, though it felt comfortable, after all of these years.

“Speak,” Stannis said abruptly. “I know you wish to. Spit it out.” He did not look up from the map table, his eyes hooded and dark. He was not a man prone to doubts, but Davos could see them lurking.

“It was the right decision, Your Grace. Shireen must learn to deal with these matters, and considering what she will face, the question of her marriage ought to have her input.” He hesitated half a moment. “In all things, she is your daughter. She will not choose frivolously.”

“I should have chosen for her, long ago,” the king said, unusually quiet. “There was a time I thought your Devan would make her a good husband, perhaps. He has always served with such faithfulness. I have had you. I could wish no less for my own daughter.”

“You honor me, Your Grace. And Devan. I am sure he will serve the princess by protecting her father and king for many years to come.” Davos bowed his head, not wanting Stannis to see how much the words had affected him. That he had risen so high in the king’s esteem astounded him still; that the king considered his servant’s son worthy of his own daughter humbled him. Yet Devan had chosen a different way to serve. It wasn’t to be. His own son Stannis was wed, and his youngest still a boy. It was not to be. But the king only nodded, almost absently, as if his mind, usually sharp to its task, was wandering

“It may be he will serve her better by that. What will I leave her, Davos? She has no siblings to rely upon – and even if she did, I have reason to know that is no guarantee of anything. No close cousins, either, save a small pack of bastard boys. I have few loyal servants to this day. So many opportunists surround us. Every court is full of opportunists. The Iron Throne draws them like forge-scrap to a lodestone. But they do not care what ass sits on it, as long as the royal ass is attached to a royal fist that will keep them in line. Will they respect her when I am gone, or just cast her aside? I have done everything for this cursed realm and it may not be enough for them.”

“There are no assurances in this world, Your Grace. But I do not think the gods would put you on the throne only to have your daughter be denied it.”

“The gods are capricious creatures, designed by capricious men.”

“But you are not, Your Grace. I do not think that will be forgotten or discounted, ever.”

The two men stood together in silence for a long time.

*****

“…and the King took heart from the counsel of his loyal Hand, and together they…” Davos caught himself then, marveling at how deeply he had immersed himself in memory, while the children looked up at him with wide-eyed, engrossed expressions.

“…prayed. They prayed together, yes.”

*****

“Which today?” he asked abruptly as the quiet, watchful presence of the servant girl drew his mind away from the parchments strewn across his desk.

Though the preparations for the Royal Progress to the Wall weighed heavily on Davos’s mind, the day to day needs of the realm did not change. The responsibility for planning the journey was balanced precariously atop the mountain of other duties he dare not shirk or delegate. Constantly juggling the details that half threatened to bury him at the best of times, his opportunities to observe the princess and her slowly growing pool of unknowing suitors were infrequent. But that did not mean that he lacked a view entirely.

“Ser Alyn Blackwood, my Lord Hand,” the girl said quickly. “He came with a score of men, two knights, and a squire.” Davos nodded absently, settling a raven quill into the pot on the desk and leaning back in his chair. A reasonable cavalcade for any young knight issued such an honorable invitation.

“And?” he prompted her. She was clever, this one, and did not need overmuch direction.

“He cuts a fine figure, m’lord, in his cloak with its raven feathers, with dark hair and gray eyes. He has a strong face. I would call him handsome. Lenna flirted a bit with one of his men, and he said only good things about his lord, even when she teased him. Another of his men called him “serious” as if it were a slight, but that don’t say much about him,” she added, her tone doubtful. Davos found himself in agreement. A serious man could be a voracious reader, a religious ascetic, a harsh taskmaster, or simply a man without much of a sense of humor. The chances of religious fervor struck him as unlikely, coming from one who presumably followed the Old Gods, but one could never be certain.

“Is there aught else?” he asked. When the young woman shook her head, he dismissed her with a nod. No one would ever claim that he managed spies to rival the old Spider’s intrigues. But he did have a knack for fishing the clever ones out of Flea Bottom and other less savory parts of the realm and putting them to use as eyes. As a precaution, he gave each man or woman in his service only very specific tasks. None of those individual tasks, should the spy choose to betray him, were important enough to be of use to any enemy. At least, that was what he hoped.

 _As if anyone would find it useful or surprising that young men are being considered to be Shireen’s consort. The news is as expected as the Stark words or buttered turnips for supper._ With Blackwood’s arrival, it meant only Edric Dayne had yet to arrive in King’s Landing among the possible suitors, and his ship was expected within days, unless the winds were unusually unfavorable. And yet, already Shireen had begun to show her preferences, and they were inclined toward the Lord of Horn Hill. He had arrived a fortnight previously, and though all of the men had socialized with the court, dined in positions of honor at the king’s own table, and been favored with conversation with the princess, her pleasure at the company of Lord Tarly was subtly evident to Davos, and most likely the king, along with the most practiced sort of court hangers-on.

It was not the princess’s fault. Her attentions to Tarly were not improper or untoward, nor did she favor him in any unusual way, but Davos knew how rare were her genuine smiles and laughter, and could hear the smallest differences between her honest pleasure and practiced pleasantries. He did not have a daughter himself, only his sons, whom he loved beyond all else, but he fancied that he felt a little of a father’s sensibilities when it came to Shireen. He had not considered her a child for some time, but it was unsettling enough to him that there was evidence of the princess’s role as a woman grown in her manner these days. Davos could hardly imagine how Stannis felt.

What was both relief and frustration to both of the men who looked out for her was that Tarly seemed to be worthy of her favor. He was courteous, clever, and handsome by any maid’s reckoning, so Davos’s inquiries among the female staff of the keep had confirmed. He was hard on his men, but not cruel. He was active and devil-may-care with his person, and had gone on vigorous hunting parties in the Kingswood three times since his arrival at the capital. Shireen had observed him riding, once, while hawking, and Davos had heard her compliment his horsemanship to her ladies-in-waiting, who had all tittered at the comment as if it meant something more than an evaluation of his equitation. The whole situation made him uneasy, but of course it was necessary.

It was not that any of the other men were entirely unsuitable, though each had flaws. Addam Estermont was as deliberate and plodding in his thoughts as his house’s sigil, but had an honest kindness about him. Wallace Waynwood had the most practiced courtesies of any man Davos had seen, even among those who made it their life’s work to perfect the courtier’s games, but was prideful, even arrogant. Randyll Rowan was quick-witted and had made the princess laugh several times, but he was as vain as a peacock, and fair glittered with jewels, with each of his court costumes more garish than the last. Davos had warned Shireen to try to hold her judgment for the long months of travel ahead, given the chance to see each man outside the strictures of the court, but he had doubts that the presence of either the newly-arrived Blackwood or Ned Dayne would turn her eyes from Lord Tarly.

*****

“I knew it!” Dalla whispered.

“There’s still another lord, yet. The last one might be the best of them all,” Alys countered, wise in the way of such stories. Rolly was beginning to look somewhat aggrieved at the liberties the girls were taking with their interruptions, though he remained silent.

“Do you want to find out if the star-and-sword lord was as great a knight as they all said? Hmm? Hush, then!”

*****

Not three days after the arrival of the Dornish retinue, the great mass of heavy-laden wagons and restive horses were being readied in the pre-dawn darkness for the long journey to the North. Great fires blazed across the courtyard to give servants, grooms and men at arms the light to see by, and Davos stood above the swarming masses atop a hastily-erected platform atop several barrels. A snaking line of travelers was beginning to take shape – at the fore, a contingent of the Queen’s Men in their god-blessed raiment to lead the way, followed by King Stannis and Princess Shireen, guarded by six of the seven Kingsguard – Ser Richard Horpe would remain with Queen Selyse – as well as a number of the king’s own sworn knights and men at arms. Behind them would come the great wheelhouse to which the royal family and honored guests might retire, should they desire. Then would come the parties of various honored lords and knights and their own small retinues, and then the train of wagons laden with supplies – food, coin, medicine, as well as certain gifts and honors for the men of the Night’s Watch.

It would be a candlemark yet until sunrise, and even longer still before he expected the noble members of the party would join them and the party would begin its crawl northwards. Such expectations very nearly blinded him to the stir of surprise that rippled across the courtyard as a small party of noblemen strode into the courtyard and came to a halt just next to him, observing the proceedings in silence. He peered down and found himself meeting the shadowed purple eyes of Ser Edric Dayne. He was a young man, hardly older than Shireen, but with an air of the haunted about him. It was not entirely uncommon to see that expression on a great number of men, even a decade past the wars that had tortured the realm, not least of all the War at the Wall, but unusual for one as young as this. He carried the great sword Dawn slung across his back, below the round shield blazoned with the star-and-sword of his house, but was only lightly armored for the day’s travels.

“Ser, good morning to you. It will be some candlemarks before we are on our way,” Davos said. “The preparations for the beasts as well as the men take time, particularly for one as inexperienced in these matters as I.” It was no matter to him, these self-depreciating moments. It was generally what the lords expected of him, particularly those from the purest old houses.

“Oh, I very much doubt that, my Lord Hand. You are hardly inexperienced in these matters, and I daresay that this great ant-hive of activity will have sorted itself out in the next very little while,” Edric said dryly.

“You are too generous, ser. I regret that you have had so little time to enjoy King’s Landing and the invitation of His Grace and the princess, or even time to rest,” Davos replied, unable to resist choosing words to probe this young man, who appeared half a shadow in the dim light, dressed in the subtle colors of his house. Behind him stood two knights, one in pale yellow, his sigil a black and white bird that Davos did not recognize – a personal coat of arms, he guessed – and the other wore a shield across his back of green-on-green chequy, and a silver quill. A golden quill was the sigil of House Jordayne, but silver? Amidst all of the chaos, he could not recall its meaning, until Edric’s reply.

“No need to worry. My companions and I half expected to have to ride hard to catch you, the way the winds turned on us. I ride fast, and I need men who can keep pace. Ser Myles Corwin and Ser Brandon Sand,” he said, indicating first the yellow knight and then the quill knight with nods as he introduced them to Davos. At that, the strange sigil made sense. A bastard of House Jordayne, then, probably one of the late Lord Trebor’s sons, to keep his blazon so similar with impunity, and to be a companion of the Lord of Starfall. Both men made small bows toward Davos, their mien respectful as they silently watched their lord as well as the tableau of preparations unfolding across the bailey.

“Three days is fine. Our horses rested as well on the ship as we did, and I am eager to see the North and the Wall. Lord Commander Snow and I were milk-brothers as children. It will be good to see him as a man grown,” said Edric, his eyes distant, as if lost in memories. The comment startled Davos, even as he recalled the old tales that Jon Snow was the son of Ashara Dayne. If they had shared a wetnurse, that might not be at all far-fetched. But Edric spoke on, his eyes refocusing to study Davos nearly as intently as Davos watched him.

“I do regret that I have not been able to speak with the king and the Princess Shireen as much as I might have wished. Tell me, my Lord Hand, why was I honored with this invitation? I dared not, and did not desire to refuse it, but it seems passing strange. You know how the rest of Westeros is viewed in Dorne in these days, and I am certain the feeling is generally mutual. Is this supposed to please Arianne, or Dorne more generally? You ought to know it will do neither,” he warned, his voice low, pitched precisely for only Davos and his men to hear.

“I told you, Ned,” drawled Brandon Sand before Davos could form a reply, the words barely audible under his breath. “They want the Princess safely wedded, bedded and producing an heir as soon as possible, and you’re on the block.” Davos controlled his expression and only feigned a look of mild distaste at the accusation.

“Ser, you would do well to guard your tongue and speak respectfully of the princess. You shame yourself, and your lord.” The bastard only smiled faintly and bowed low to Davos.

“You are quite right, my Lord Hand. I spoke very ill.” But he exchanged a look with Edric Dayne as something passed between them, and Davos did not think it was a silent reprimand. It far more resembled a certain understanding.

“I will chastise him appropriately, my lord, have no fear. But I think we both know that he is right in the main, and only appallingly frank in his declarations,” Edric said smoothly.

“Certainly, as any father might, the king considers his daughter’s future of the utmost importance, and she is of an age to be wed.”

“She is somewhat past the age for a maid to be wed, but let us not quibble. I’ll tell you now, Lord Hand, I am pleased to accept His Grace’s invitation and hospitality. But I will not wed his daughter. I spent much of my youth away from Starfall, seeing the worst travesties of the wars a decade past, seeing the knight I served, the best of men, die and die and die again, seeing the dead walk, talk, and kill, and being perforated by steel a dozen times over. I finally returned to Dorne as a knight, only to have to track down my cursed bandit cousin Ser Gerold and see him executed and feel the burden and curse only a kinslayer bears. I am well done with matters outside my remaining kin and the welfare of Starfall. If Stannis thinks I will abandon my home and House without an heir and come to this vile nest of snakes that he keeps controlled only with the threat of a bared blade in order to take his daughter as a bride, he is a fool.” His voice eased only slightly as he continued to speak.

“Besides, even I can see she has chosen already. Her partiality for Tarly has barely escaped being open gossip, but it appears the other prospective horses being tested with a turns around the riding ring think they have a chance. They are welcome to it. I will be party to these travels gladly, but never to such a farce.” His dark eyes met Davos’s squarely, and he inclined his head and shoulders in a small bow.

“I think your preparations are nearly done, Davos. My men and I will see to our needs. See that you tell His Grace what I have said.” Without a backward glance, the Lord of Starfall and his knights strode across the courtyard to the stables, where their graceful sandsteeds and entourage waited. As dawn crept over the walls of the Red Keep, turning them from gray to rose in the pale light, Davos began to wonder if this had been all a very great mistake.

*****

“He’s not a very good knight,” Alys objected.

“Good enough to know that princesses are _boring_ ,” Rolland countered.

“You don’t know anything about it, Rolly,” said Dalla, while Alys huffed her displeasure at her brother’s pronouncements.

“The sword-and-star knight was good, and brave, but he had obligations to his home and family. He would be no noble knight to abandon them, would he?” Davos asked them pointedly.

“But the princess _needs_ a knight!” Dalla was certain, and it made Davos repress a sigh. The septa was something of a romantic, despite her devotion to the Faith, and it seemed to pervade her stories, at least to the girls.

“There are already a bunch of knights in this story for her to pick from – at least this one is too smart to be caught!” said Rolland.

“You’re just saying that because no lady would be caught dead picking _you_ to marry,” Alys scoffed.

“Does Septa Neryssa tolerate all of this arguing during her stories, or will I have to call her to put you to bed?” Davos cut them off once again, his voice stern, before being rewarded once again with silence.

“And the king and princess and court left the castle, and began their journey…”


	2. Chapter 2

High summer made for plentiful daylight, and even the massive, unwieldy party traveled far, for many candlemarks each day. It was not long before the cavalcade took on a routine not entirely dissimilar from that within the Red Keep, in terms of keeping every man fed and sheltered. Few things had changed about the king since the wars, and it had taken several days before his servants had entirely convinced him not to take part in the raising of his tent each evening, and so Davos found himself attempting to engage Stannis in conversation as they sat over a light meal at a table, chairs and beneath an awning hastily erected as they paused to make camp on the fifth night, if only to give the men a moment’s peace in their duties. Some distance away, local smallfolk from the local village were gawking at the activity going on as camp was built for the night, while others were doing a brisk business in trade – foodstuffs and some small crafts were haggled over, and certainly the local inn’s few whores would be plying their trade tonight among the tents lining the Kingsroad.

Davos still marveled a little at the controlled chaos of the camp arising around them, but the king’s countenance was stormy, and he ate almost perfunctorily from the plate, and barely touched his winecup to his lips. And when Edric Dayne and his sworn men ride by on their delicate sandsteeds, the beasts frolicking like colts despite the long journey and the men laughing and jesting, Davos would nearly swear he felt a chill on the summer air as the king’s expression turned to stone.

“They are lucky the Hand stays my own, else I would have sent them packing back south, with whips hard on their heels all the way to the Prince’s Pass,” the king muttered. Hearing news of Edric Dayne’s warning to Davos on the morning of the journey’s beginning had tested Stannis’s limited patience.

“Your Grace, I am certain you are best served by putting the matter from your mind. Would you want such a man as Shireen’s husband? I think not. He ought to have been far more gracious, but we can be glad he has made his intentions known.” In truth, there was a part of Davos that appreciated the Lord of Starfall’s candor, and respected it. But Stannis certainly saw it as a slight.

“I mislike this plan more and more. It feels tawdry, like some sort of game,” Stannis complained.

“Shireen hardly considers it to be play, Your Grace. Today, as we rode, as Estermont promised her a gift of gold jewelry, she turned the conversation into a near-interrogation of the man on taxation laws of the kingdoms. And at dinner yesterday evening, upon hearing Rowan describe the beauties of Goldengrove, she questioned what he knew of his lands’ incomes and what crops were grown by the smallfolk. And she does it all while smiling,” Davos said. Stannis did not smile, but something a little softer touched the angles of his face. The princess was not neglecting putting each of the men through their paces, though after Davos had told her that Ned Dayne would not be swayed, her interactions with him had become somewhat more cursory and distantly polite.

As if conjured by their conversation, Shireen and Dickon Tarly appeared, riding along the small creek not a stone’s throw from the road. The princess’s chestnut palfrey ambed amiably alongside Tarly’s own blood bay, the two horses matching each other stride for stride. They were followed by a white shadow – Devan, in his Kingsguard cloak, his pale gray mount reined back a short distance, giving the princess and her escort a small amount of privacy. Tarly cut a handsome figure in a green and brown doublet of a simple cut, the plainness of it a contrast to his handsome features, bright blue eyes and curling dark hair. Over his shoulder, the massive two-handed Valyrian blade of his family rested easily across his back. The princess wore a yellow dress cut for riding, and her long red cloak was draped over her gelding’s hindquarters, the hood trailing down her back. Ser Dickon was relating a story, gesturing with his free hand, the other loose on his horse’s rein, as he sketched figures in the air and then made some motions that Davos took to be a description of a swordfight, while Shireen smiled, and even laughed at some particular word or three.

“…and when the third lance took Ser Duncan Rhysling on our final pass, his green squire, Tywin Graceford, cried out, “Duck!”, all afraid. But it was just a little too late, and Duncan found himself on the ground, and with a new nickname. It would not be very noble of me, but I confess I laughed when some took up the cause of quacking in his general vicinity.” Dickon’s voice had become low and half conspiratorial as he related the end of his tale, but Davos heard in any case, as the pair of them rode up quite close to where he sat with the king. He pulled up his horse and bowed low from the saddle to King Stannis.

“Your Grace, please forgive me for jealously guarding my time with your gracious daughter. She humors my terrible stories, and that I cannot resist. How did you find the road, today?” he inquired politely.

“Stony,” Stannis replied, direct as ever. “Much the same as yesterday. But I am pleased with our progress. If you would leave us now, Lord Davos and I would speak with Shireen.” It was not a question, not from Stannis. Not from a king. Tarly bowed once again with alacricity.

“Your Grace. Lord Hand. Princess.” The final acknowledgment was made with just a touch of softness, a smile extending into his eyes as he gazed at Shireen for a long moment, and then turned his horse away to leave them in relative privacy. Shireen dismounted from her horse and turned him over to a groom with a pat, and strode toward the awning where her father and Davos waited, slipping her riding gloves from her hands. Devan took up a position with the two other members of the Kingsguard in the immediate vicinity, and Shireen fell lightly into the chair that a servant brough forward for her, sitting between the two men at the table and plucking a sliced piece of fruit from the platter.

“Father. My Lord Davos. What are you plotting?” The crisp bit of apple disappeared into her mouth, and she looked inquisitively at both men as she reached for a cup of wine.

“Not plotting. Pondering,” Davos said gently. “Wondering if all of Lord Tarly’s stories are as terrible as he claims.” Stannis remained silent, watching his daughter through half-lidded eyes.

“Rather, they are. But, presuming they are true, he is a knight of some renown in the Reach, and has unhorsed most knights there, and a good chunk of Dorne, besides.”

“Tourneys are play,” Stannis warned. “And that only at the best of times. At worst, they are terrible distractions for good warriors, tangling them with lesser men in constant mock-battles that mean nothing but an excuse for transient glory and celebratory drink.” While he agreed with the king in many respects, Davos couldn’t help but wonder how much of that resentment was based on the love that his brothers had once held for tourney games. He had heard tales of Robert wading into melees with gleeful shouts, and Renly had unhorsed many opponents in his day. The king was ever a hard man, but sometimes he was at his hardest when reminded of his brothers.

“Very true,” Shireen admitted. “But he would not tell me the story of how he slew half of the Oakwood outlaws for fear of damaging my delicate sensibilities.” A touch of dry amusement tinged her voice.

“That story I had to have Devan dig out of one of his men, with judicious application of drink. In truth, Ser Dickon is not just a tourney knight. He is as capable with that greatsword in real battle as any man. His father taught him well.”

“Do you respect him?” Stannis asked. “Not love, I do not care for your feelings, but do you believe that can you respect him, trust him, rely on him? Would he be as loyal to you as Davos has been to me, because you can earn it of him, not buy it?” His questions were cutting, even demanding, and it was clear he expected an answer.

“I am certain of it. He is everything a knight should be, you see it, don’t you? His men respect him fully, he has managed his family’s lands well for years, now, and he would be a strong leader for the kingdom,” Shireen said confidently. Stannis’s scowl only deepened.

“You will lead these damned kingdoms when I am gone, not your consort.”

“He will be king. If a king’s wife is a queen, a queen’s husband is a king,” she said briskly. “Besides, do you expect me to lead the charge if it comes to war again?” Davos found himself unsettled by her answers, and the careless, humor-tinged dismissal of her future responsibilities.

“Of course not. But a ruler leads, and makes the final decision in war after hearing the counsel of those he trusts. You will still have that responsibility,” Davos said, before the king could say it less graciously.

“I don’t see why Dickon couldn’t do it. Men will listen to other men in matters of war better than they would ever obey me.” There was something petulant about her expression, as if she had expected this conversation would go differently. It was not a familiar thing for Davos to see on her face. The king’s expression made stone seem soft in comparison.

“Because he is not my child. You are, and you will lead after me. This is what I have been preparing you for your entire life, Shireen. You will not hand your birthright off to a near-stranger because he has a pretty face and you think it would make your own life easier. Nothing about ruling is easy. That is your lot in life, and you cannot shirk it.” Stannis fixed his daughter with a hard gaze, his body rigid in his chair, as if he was holding himself back from standing and looming over her to deliver his opinion. He had never needed to, in the past. Shireen had long been a sensible child – never biddable, no, but always sensitive to reason and in agreement with her father’s cool temperament and perhaps cynical view of the world. In this, however, she had formed her own opinion.

“And why must a thing be made harder in order to be right?” she snapped, a flush rising in her cheek at being rebuked, standing abruptly, her skirts swinging and her chin high. “I am only thinking of what will be best for the kingdom.” The king’s reply was dismissive.

“No. You are thinking of what will be best for yourself.”

As the princess turned on her heel and strode away, Devan hurried to follow her, and Davos stifled the urge to call after her. This would not be settled in a yelling match, and that was what was like to erupt if he forced her to remain. Stannis remained still a moment longer, and if surprise was an expression he knew how to show, it might have been seen on his face.

“I will be in my tent. I’ll have my dinner there, I’ve had enough of this picnicking.” Davos stood and began to follow, pitching his voice low.

“Your Grace…”

“Alone, Lord Davos. That will be all.”

As the king disappeared inside his pavilion, Davos poured himself a fresh cup of wine and settled back into his seat to think.

*****

“The princess isn’t…being a very good princess,” Dalla said dubiously. Both she and Alys seemed unsettled by the turn the story had taken.

“Oh?” he said. Alys shook her head.

“Well, a princess is good, and kind, and makes the right decisions for her people. A knight protects the princess, and loves her, and helps her, but he isn’t a princess. A knight would make a very bad princess,” Alys said gravely. Rolly rolled his eyes, but held his peace.

“As it happens, I think you’re quite right. A knight would make a terrible princess.”

*****

The journey to Winterfell was long and arduous. Each day dawned bright, and they made good progress in mild summer weather, but the cold impasse between Stannis and Shireen was frightening to behold. With the king unwilling to rest at a friendly keep for a few days at any point in the journey, it became all too simple for Stannis and Shireen to avoid one another almost entirely. More often, the princess chose to ride in the wheelhouse, attended by one or more invited young men or women on the journey, their number always including Dickon Tarly, holding a small sort of court there. The king always rode, frequently lapsed into cold silences, with Davos at his right hand. Most of the rest of the party seemed not to notice the changes that had taken place. Many, Davos noted sourly, seemed pleased that the princess rode safely ensconced in the wheelhouse instead of tearing about as the fearless horsewoman, her cloak streaming out behind her like a banner, as she had for the first week of the journey. Still, finally the day came when an outrider came galloping back to the main party on a sweat-soaked horse. 

“Winterfell will soon be in sight, Your Grace.” Stannis only nodded silently to the man, who bowed low and retreated. After a few moments, he turned to Davos.

“Send a fresh rider ahead so that the household will be prepared for our arrival.” Davos saw to it, and within minutes, a young man on a fast, fresh horse galloped ahead of the slow-moving mass of travelers.

“It will be good to stay within a keep’s walls again, Your Grace,” Davos observed, hoping that this change would draw Stannis out of his silent solitude of the past weeks.

“It might be,” was the king’s only reply, yet it was enough to let more words escape.

“You have spoken with her about this foolishness.” It was never a question. He should learn not to expect it.

“I have. I don’t know whether the boy has convinced her that she would be better off with him doing things for her, or whether she’s come to the conclusion on her own, but she’s dug in her heels on this score. She is convinced that the only way she will be respected is to have a husband take on many of the duties of the realm. She would rather placate them in advance than find herself in a position of weakness, I fear.”  
“It’s the damn boy,” Stannis growled. “She never thought this way before he suggested it to her. I am certain he did it with every courtesy, offering himself humbly as her servant, but it makes no matter. She will give him rein to rule if she gives him control of those things better fit for men, and encourage the petty lordlings to curry favor with one or the other of them. A realm can have but one ruler.”

Silence descended over the men once again, as Davos could find nothing to disagree with in the king’s words. As they rode, the sun rose high overhead, lending warmth to the cool northern air, and it was not long before Winterfell came into sight in the distance. The imposing keep had been largely rebuilt much as it once stood, but even a decade and the work of hundreds of men was not enough time to replace all that had burned. The Great Hall and main keep were repaired, though, and some towers stood. They would rest within snug walls, tonight.

As they rode on, soon activity could be made out - men the size of ants moved along the walls, and smallfolk pointed and flocked to one another as the massive train of people approached. The King’s Gate was winched open to allow them to pass, and they rode through the small town that huddled up against the side of the keep to approach it. The trailing part of the travelers – a portion of the men at arms and supply wagons – pulled to the far side of the Kingsroad to set up their own camp. Their numbers would strain even Winterfell’s space, and so Davos had directed them thus. It was still a hundred and more strong who entered the outer walls, with the king at their head. Within the keep wall, a party awaited them in the expansive courtyard, with Sansa Stark standing ready to greet them.

She was hardly any older than Shireen in years, but much older in every other way, it seemed. Twice widowed – once from the Imp, and again from Ser Harold Hardying – she remained childless, and though she had spent much of the wars within the safety of the Vale, she had returned to Winterfell not long after the death of her second husband, and she had not yet chosen to remarry. Being Lady of Winterfell, however, seemed to suit her well. As the royal party dismounted, she curtseyed low, and all of the various high-ranking servants behind her followed suit. Davos scanned the crowd and saw no evidence of Winterfell’s lord.

“Your Grace, you are most welcome to Winterfell,” Sansa said, her expression warm.

“Lady Sansa, your hospitality is much appreciated on our long journey,” the king replied. He did not smile, or seem warm, but there was a sincerity to his interaction with the young woman – as well as a directness. 

“Where is Lord Rickon?” Sansa cast her eyes downward, her expression that of embarrassment, though Davos had a suspicion it was hiding feelings of irritation.

“Rickon went hunting this morning, and has not yet returned. I have sent men to find him in the Wolfswood, but no one knows the woods as well as he does, I am afraid. They may be some time in finding him.” As Sansa and the king conversed, the members of the party who had been riding in the wheelhouse had emerged and were walking up behind them. Shireen laughed softly at some jest of Dickon’s, and held his arm as they walked across the courtyard.

“Princess Shireen, you are most welcome, too,” Sansa said, curtseying once more as the princess approached. Her clever blue eyes evaluated her companion quickly, but Shireen spoke before Sansa could.

“This is Lord Tarly, who is our guest on this long journey.”

“A pleasure, my lord,” Sansa said, a bit of surprise showing on her features. “You are not…you must be Maester Samwell’s brother.” Dickon smiled broadly, and bowed.

“You are correct, my lady. I have not seen him in many years, and that is a part of why I have come on this journey. A small part,” he added, turning his grin on Shireen, who blushed somewhat. Nothing changed on Sansa’s expression, but Davos had no doubt she saw significantly more to the exchange than she let on. Finally, the lady of the house turned to him, and when she attempted to curtsey, he caught her hand and hugged her gently.

“My Lord Hand,” she began, and then returned the embrace. “It is very, very good to see you, as always,” she murmured quietly.

“Still as wild as ever?” he asked her softly.

“As wild as ever,” was her only reply.

As if on cue, a rider entered from the Hunter’s Gate at a rapid pace, and hard on the horse’s heels was a massive black direwolf. The Lord of Winterfell had returned. A groom rushed forward to take the horse and the deer carcass slung over the saddle’s cantle as the rider jumped to the ground and laid a hand on the shoulder of the massive lupine beast as if to calm it. Davos was taken aback – the boy was entirely a man grown, even at only fifteen.

Rickon’s red-brown hair was thick and long, tied back from his face with a simple knot, and he had a short, rough beard of the same color. He had not grown into a particularly tall man, but he was strong, and the sword at his hip rested there easily. If the deer was any indication, he knew how to use the bow slung across his back as well. He might look a Tully – and he resembled his uncle Edmure to a startling degree in some ways, Davos realized in that moment – but this boy was every inch a Stark, otherwise. As he always had been. He strode across the courtyard much the same as the prowling, black wolf at his heels.

“Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell.” At Sansa’s soft cough, he bowed, somewhat too fast, as if it was an action he felt uncomfortable making.

“What a _beast_!” came the muttered comment, barely audible, but Davos heard it. It was Tarly speaking, he knew, and when he glanced sideways, the young lord looked caught between horror and fascination at the sight of the massive black wolf. Shireen, for her part, looked taken aback as well.

“Lord Stark, I am glad your hunt was successful.” Stannis allowed a little dryness to enter his tone, and Rickon had the good grace to look somewhat chagrinned, though Davos didn’t see a hint of regret in his eyes.

“I would offer you the venison tonight, Your Grace, but my sister has organized a much more _southron_ feast in your honor.”

“I am sure whatever the Lady of Winterfell has organized will delight us. We have been too long on the road,” Davos said. He stepped forward and grasped the boy’s arm. 

“It’s good to see you well, Rickon. You’ve grown a great deal.” The return clasp was strong and firm, and for the first time, the boy actually smiled.

“Davos, I mean, my Lord Hand, I’m glad to see you. It has been a very long time, hasn’t it?” His expression was at once happy and a little sad. At his side, the wolf’s ears tipped backward, and its expression became somewhat uneasy.

“Too long. But, there will be time for that. First, I ought present you to the Princess Shireen.” Davos turned, gripping his shoulder companionably, and then gave a little surreptitious push to remind him to bow.

“Princess, may I present Lord Rickon Stark.” To his credit, he bowed at the pressure, this time just a little more smoothly. Shireen studied him frankly with curious eyes, and then smiled a little.

“My lord, I have heard so much about you from Lord Davos. I am pleased to be able to meet you, finally.” Her gaze slid sideways to the wolf.

“And your…friend.” Rickon grinned a little, a friendly expression on most, though there was a hint of a threat to it on his face, and buried his hand in the massive beast’s black fur.

“This is Shaggy. We’ve grown together, and we have an understanding,” he offered. The wolf stared fixedly, first at the princess, and then at her companion. Tarly did not seem particularly amused.

“Is it safe?” he inquired, looking dubious.

“Safe? No.” The feral smile on the young lord’s face deepened a fraction, and he turned away to address the king.

“Your Grace, if you would come with me, I would welcome you properly, with bread and salt, and wine to wash the thirst from you.” Taking his sister’s hand, he gestured for the king to precede him into the Great Hall, trailed by the wolf.

*****

“Brilliant.”

“Yes, it rather was, Rolly.”

*****

Somewhat to Davos’s surprise, Shireen took to Winterfell comfortably, and seemed immediately at ease. When he made mention of it, she had laughed at him, an easy smile on her face.

“Don’t forget, my lord, I spent the wars on the _Wall_ itself. Nothing about the North unsettles me, least of all its greatest keep. It is different than King’s Landing, but hardly more remote than Dragonstone. It is good to have a little taste of all parts of the realm.”

Ser Dickon, however, seemed ill at ease, and everything about Winterfell and its peoples seemed only to make it worse. The worship of the Old Gods by both the Starks and the smallfolk, the foreboding presence of the Wolfswood just outside the outer bailey of the keep, and most of all the direwolf that followed Lord Stark’s every movement. Shireen tried to coax him into shedding his anxiety, but he moved like a man expecting an attack at any moment, whether he was eating in the Great Hall or walking the walls. Even at breakfast, with most of the highborn guests eating together, he looked on edge. Finally, seemingly at her wits’ end, on the third morning of their stay, the princess invited Tarly to go riding with her later in the day.

“Lady Sansa told me that she’s expecting several lords to arrive today, perhaps we’ll meet some of them if we ride out a little,” she offered with forced gaiety. With a wan smile, Dickon agreed, and Davos leaned toward them.

“Do not leave without at least one, and preferably two members of the Kingsguard, princess,” he reminded her, briefly making eye contact with Devan, who sat over his breakfast a few places down the long table. He nodded soberly, and Shireen sighed.

“Of course, Lord Davos. Ser Devan has been _remarkably_ attentive during this journey.” Davos chose to ignore the dry edge to her voice in favor of cracking the shell of his egg and offering a greeting to Ser Randyll as he joined them at table.

On the far side of the King’s seat, however, he noticed Rickon and Sansa exchanging looks. Something passed silently between them, though he could not be certain what it meant. When Shireen and Dickon, shadowed by Devan, had left the Great Hall, the young lord of the house similarly took to his feet and announced his intentions to hunt in the Wolfswood anew. With his wolf at his heels, he, too, left the table. As Davos frowned after him and considered calling out to question him, a presence at his elbow drew his attention back. Sansa offered him a smile.

“Will you join me in my solar, Lord Davos? There is so much I would ask you about these past years. Word brought by raven is not nearly enough to assuage my curiosity about how the realm has fared.” With her delicate hand on his arm, she led him away, and though he glanced back over his shoulder toward the door as the boy and wolf disappeared, he assented.

“Lady Sansa, you are too gracious, but I confess that Rickon worries me.”

“You, me, everyone. It has been difficult. I am not my mother. He barely remembers her, and I do not think he remembers Father at all. I was so grateful when you returned him to me, the whole North thanks you and His Grace for it every day, but he’s as much a creature of impulse as his wolf. Maybe that’s as it should be.” She fell silent as they walked together, her hand still tucked gently into the crook of his arm.

“That creature is the only reason he is still alive. It, and the wildling woman, to be sure.” At that, Sansa half-smiled.

“Osha. She is in Dorne, you know. All she wanted, once the wars were over, was to go “as south as south went” still. Lady Manderly and I saw her off on a ship from White Harbor. She sends word by the tradeships, sometimes. She wed a Dornishman, a widower, and runs his shop in Sunspear, and raises his four daughters.” Davos could not help but shake his head admiringly.

“A strong woman. I am glad to hear that she is well,” he said, and meant every word. The wildling woman had been a wonder in every sense, and he never would have gained a young Rickon’s trust without her. They stepped inside the solar, fitted with many glass panes angled to catch the thin sunlight, the room snug and comfortable, and once Sansa had taken a seat, he joined her.

“Does he do this often? The sudden hunting trips?” he asked. Sansa pursed her lips and nodded.

“As often as I will let him, and more. The walls of the keep constrain him. They chafe at him like chains. Arya was bad enough, but Rickon…it’s worse, in some ways. They say that some Starks get more of the wolf blood than others. He has all of it. I do not know what he would do without me here to manage the things he can’t make himself do.”

“Sooner or later, my lady, you will wed and leave the managing of Winterfell to another,” Davos said gently.

“I am not so certain, on that score. Rickon will never force me to wed, thank the gods, and I may never choose to marry again. Twice is quite enough, I think. But Rickon does need to marry, eventually. Any number of lords would offer him their daughter, and he is certainly grown into a handsome young man, but he is wild. A man who whores or gambles or fights, a girl might be used to, or even expect. But one who disappears for days on end with his wolf? I am not sure there are many maids who would choose that sort of husband,” Sansa said, shaking her head.

“Oh, you might be surprised,” Davos said with feigned cheer. “But let us talk of other things. You are right that raven-borne news is never enough. How has the north fared in these past years?”

They spoke for several candlemarks, enjoying one another’s company and sharing news of friends and acquaintances. He laughed ruefully to hear that Wylla Manderly was entertaining her fifth suitor in as many years, with this one as unsuccessful as the last several had been at winning her heart. She mouthed a grateful prayer to the Mother when he shared the news with her, quietly, that his spies had located Tommen Baratheon still living, albeit under a false name, as an alchemist’s apprentice in Lys – and another prayer when he explained that Stannis had no plans to send swords after him, so long as he stayed there. He asked after Northmen, wildling clan leaders, and the men of the Watch, from whom she had messengers regularly. She asked after Davos’s own family, and this noble and that, and even a few servants from the Red Keep, which he found remarkable, after all these years.

As they spoke, Stannis heard muffled voices in the hallway. He ignored them at first, expecting that they were servants at their duties, but as the voices raised, he leapt to his feet just as the door burst open, admitting his son, Devan, trailed by an anxious servant in Stark livery, trying to prevent him from entering. 

“Kingsguard or no, it’s not _proper_ to go barging in to her ladyship’s solar,” the older woman cried, pulling at his arm. Devan seemed to be largely ignoring her, an anxious expression on his face.

“Father...my Lord Hand, we must speak.” Stannis felt fear turn in his gut.

“Is it the Princess? Is she harmed?”

“No, but…” Devan stammered.

“The king?” Sansa gasped. Devan shook his head.

“No, but…”

“Ser Devan, are they both guarded and well? Is there any immediate danger?” Davos asked harshly, trying to shock his son into coherence. Devan drew a deep breath and replied evenly, standing somewhat awkwardly with the servingwoman hanging off of his arm.

“Ser Omer and Lord Commander Gerald guard the king. Ser Corliss guards Princess Shireen,” he assured Davos.

“It is not immediate danger, but danger nonetheless and I _must_ speak with you, my lord. Now,” he said, half-begging.

“First, you will apologize to Lady Sansa and…” he trailed off, looking questioningly to the servingwoman, who was still trying, ineffectually, to pull Devan toward the door. She straightened, and bobbed a curtsey to Davos.

“Merry, my lord, if it please you,” she said.

“It does. Ser Devan, please apologize for bursting into this room without anyone being in serious danger,” Stannis said warningly, narrowing his eyes at his son. Devan had the good grace to flush.

“My lady Sansa. Madam Merry. I am sorry for my rudeness. But there is a matter of much importance to the throne that I need to discuss with my father,” he said, looking imploringly at the last to Davos.

“Of course, Ser Devan. We will go. Please make use of my solar as long as you need to speak.” Sansa rose to her feet and began to leave the room with her servingwoman in tow. When Devan looked hesitant, Davos made a decision.

“Lady Sansa, please stay. I have a feeling that you will want to know this news, too, judging by my son’s face. Merry, if you would permit me, though I am not your lord, would you send a girl with wine for us? I think we will need it.” The woman disappeared with another bob of her head, and Davos waited for Sansa to regain her seat.

“Devan, just what is going on? This behavior is most inappropriate.” Devan looked shamed, and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Father, I…while we were out riding, a woman tried to kill the princess,” he said, his face set into a pale mask. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, shocked, and Davos felt his jaw set hard.

“Tell me everything,” he demanded.

“The princess went riding with Lord Tarly. I followed behind them, just a few paces, to give them some privacy to speak. We rode a ways out west and south, along the edges of the Wolfswood. All was well for some time. The princess and Lord Tarly were talking, the weather was pleasant. We hardly saw anyone, but at a distance, and suddenly a woman appeared out of the wood. She was old, stooped and gray, but she had a bow in her hand, and it was drawn. She was ahead of us, a good bit, and she aimed toward us. I didn’t know what to do.” He looked pleadingly at his father.

“There was no way I could get to her before she could shoot the princess, nor could Lord Tarly. She was saying something, it wasn’t clear, but it was something about the princess being “unclean”, and how the realm would suffer if she became queen.” Davos looked perplexed, until Sansa explained. No longer outwardly shocked, Sansa had schooled her expression to give nothing away.

“A wildling superstition. They believe that greyscale is a curse, and those who survive it are damned. Jon has been trying to teach them that it’s just foolishness and lies, that survivors of the childhood disease can’t spread it, but some may not believe it,” she said reluctantly. At Devan’s disgusted look, Sansa lifted her chin.

“It’s hard north of the Wall, ser. Disease, of any kind, is generally a death sentence. No one survives grayscale, there. It seems like magic to them, of the worst kind. I won’t defend ignorance, but they do have reasons for being wary,” she said simply.

“Whatever the woman’s reasons, she was ready to loose her arrow, though something held her hand. At that moment, the boy…Lord Stark appeared out of the wood, just as silently as she had. He called her by name, and that wolf of his advanced on her, coming close, growling, though not attacking. While she was distracted, I tried to move around the princess, to shield her, but the wildling saw me, and yelled for me to hold, swearing to shoot.” Devan’s face was nearly gray as he recalled, fear still hanging heavy on his shoulders.

“Lord Stark kept advancing on her. He did not touch his weapon, bow or sword, but he drew her attention. I thought…I thought he meant for us, for Ser Dickon and I, to use the distraction and run with the princess, but he looked back at us, and swore the wildling woman could shoot the eye out of a dove.” He rubbed at his eyes again, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“He told her, the woman, to put down her bow and listen, not to throw her life away on superstition…and then he turned ‘round, and looked at the princess. He yelled at her. He was angry, and the wolf was growling, it was like tearing cloth. He asked… No, he told the princess to convince the woman not to shoot. He said that the woman would hardly listen to him, even if he was her lord, but that the future queen should be able to convince her.” Anger showed briefly over Devan’s features.

“Tarly called him a fool, and I thought so, too, but Shireen, the princess, she just looked down at the woman, and threw back the hood of her cloak. She wasn’t even afraid. And she said that the woman was a great fool, to attack the daughter of the man who had helped to save her and all the rest of the northern people – and she called her a northerner, not a wildling – and the only ruler of these Seven Kingdoms who was likely not to chase them back across the Wall, when all was said and done. The princess said that there were no greater friends to the North outside it than her and King Stannis, and I could see that the woman had doubts, though she did not lower her bow.” Davos found himself willing his boy to speak faster, clenching his shortened hand into a fist, while Sansa sat still as a statue across the low table between them.

“And then…then the princess said to the woman, ‘Shoot then!’ She cried it out, and I thought I would save her or die trying. But she did not stop speaking, and she sat that red palfrey of hers, draped in that cloak, and I thought for a moment the Lord of Light was speaking through her, foolish as it is. The princess told the woman that if she was so stupid as to throw away everything the past decade had brought that was good for the realm, and was willing to take her chances with whatever lord would come out on top if she died, then she should shoot, but that would make her a vile wretch throwing away her life, and many others. And I could tell the woman was ashamed. She lowered her bow, and the wolf lunged, and snapped it from her hands. His jaws shattered the wood, and the woman ran into the woods.” Daven let out a breath, and briefly looked as if he might cry. He looked so young, Davos marveled. He forgot, sometimes, just how young he was, despite all that he had done.

“I told the princess to turn and ride for the keep immediately. Tarly called me a coward, and was riding into the woods to pursue the woman, when Lord Stark grabbed his rein and kept him from it. They argued and I was certain they would come to blows, but then Lord Stark took to the woods himself, saying he would handle it, and that if Lord Tarly had any issue with it, that he ought to go and...” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

“And what, boy?” Davos said impatiently.

“It would not be right to say in front of the lady, father,” he said apologetically. Sansa made a little stifled sound that might have been a laugh.

“I must tell the king,” Devan said, looking sick at heart. Davos shook his head.

“No. I will tell His Grace.”

*****

“The princess was very brave,” Alys observed, rubbing her eyes and yawning a little. The candles had burnt down low, and Davos realized he had been talking for ages. He reached out and found a half-full cup of watered wine, which he drained to wet his throat.

“She was,” he agreed. “She was the bravest of all of them. She was the only one who only used her words to simply convince the woman not to shoot her arrow. She wasn’t afraid.”

“I would be afraid of someone with a bow, I think,” Dalla admitted.

“It is smart to sometimes be afraid,” Davos responded gently. “Not everyone can be persuaded from a thing they believe, even if they are wrong. Sometimes, though, it can be done.”

*****

The king was furious at the tale that Davos and Devan related, as was to be expected. He sent them to find the princess and send her to him, so that he might have the story from her own mouth, and father and son bowed together and went to find her. Though Devan had left her under the watch of Ser Corliss of the Kingsguard, it was not so easy to find her. They searched the keep, together – her rooms, the Great Hall, even the small Sept on the keep grounds, and there was no trace of her, or her guardian. Davos began to worry.

“Where could she have gone?” Devan said, pulling at his hair in misery. And Davos remembered, then. Northerners did not go to a Sept in times of crisis – this place only had one because the late Lady Stark had been a devotee of the Faith. Northerners went elsewhere.

“The godswood,” Davos said simply, and they turned as one and made for the gated wood. It was at the gate itself that they found Ser Corliss, frowning deeply.

“Why are you not with the princess?” Devan demanded of the man, nearly furious.

“Lord Stark himself is with her, and he said the wood was a holy place, where I would not be welcome as a follower of the Lord of Light,” he spat. “I guard the gate, it is enough. There are no other ways in or out.” Before Devan could object further, Davos laid his hand on the boy’s arm.

“He is right, Devan. Wait here. I will bring the princess and Lord Stark to His Grace so they can make their explanations to him.” He strode past the gate, immediately surrounded by summer foliage. It was strange to him that a small forest seemed to exist within the castle itself, but that is what the Stark godswood truly was. The fires that had claimed much of the keep itself had not claimed the wood…or the wood had grown back miraculously since then, somehow. He slipped through trees robed in white, dripping leaves of red, listening for the sound of water, and voices, only stopping short when he found the two he was looking for in the center clearing, under the boughs of the heart tree.

Shireen was wrapped in her cloak, redder even than the leaves, and he could see that she was angry, fury on her features. Rickon seemed calm, though, as did the wolf at his side. It lay in the fallen leaves, tongue lolling, and watched the humans as if he was amused in some fashion. Stark’s arms were crossed over his chest, while the princess paced back and forth, her boots rustling the leaves.

“You had _no right_ to speak to me that way,” she snapped. “You ought to be on your knees apologizing.”

“Apologize for what, saving your life? She wouldn’t have listened to me. She needed to hear it from you,” he replied, his manner unchanged. He certainly seemed unlikely to fall to his knees.

“And what does that say of you, my lord, that you cannot keep your smallfolk from treason?” she hissed. He frowned at that.

“The free folk…well, the people who used to be free folk, they take a different sort of ruling. They listen to sense, not orders. I could have ordered her down, yes. She would have even listened. But it would have changed nothing. They’d still think you cursed. Another would try. This way, they heard from your own lips to learn how stupid they were. Yna will tell others what happened, today. They’ll listen to one of their own. You are safer, having done what I told you to do, than if I had had Shaggy rip out her throat.” At his name, the wolf let out a low growl, and the princess looked at both man and wolf as if the sight of them infuriated her.

“You ought to have. What she did was treason, and my father will have her head.” Rickon only shook his head.

“He doesn’t have to. You don’t have to. Just tell him what you said. You’re going to be the bloody queen someday, aren’t you? Don’t you have a say in it?” he asked.

“Of course! Anyway, it might not matter what either of us say, now. I am sure Lord Tarly is hunting her even this moment. He’s slain brigands before, this will be no different.” She rounded on him, crossing her arms across her chest.

“If he finds his way out of the Wolfswood alive, he will be a very lucky man,” Rickon replied. Shireen’s face went pale.

“What did you do?”

“I’ve done nothing. What Yna and the others will do to him if he’s foolish, I can’t say.” He smiled a little, looking amused, but Shireen’s scowl, followed hard by a slap, wiped it from his face. The wolf growled, but the princess did not even flinch, meeting Rickon’s eyes furiously.

“If he dies, it will be on your head. This is no joke.” The boy rubbed the side of his face warily.

“Apparently not. I will retrieve him, if you so fear for him. For your sake, and Sam’s, I suppose,” he said reluctantly.

“But you should be glad, you know. The free folk don’t just listen to anyone. You, they listened to. They respect King Stannis, and they’ll follow you just as well.” With a tug on his wolf’s ear, the boy and the beast walked from the clearing, passing by Davos without a word.

*****

“He deserved to be slapped.”

“You’re right, he absolutely did, sweetling.”

*****

The light was fading by the time that Lord Stark and Lord Tarly returned to Winterfell. A man set to watch from the walls from the Hunter’s Gate called out a warning that a rider approached from the wood, repeated by the man who burst into the Great Hall, where all waited for word. They emerged out into the courtyard, some murmuring curses at word that only a single rider approached, just as the loping horse, trailed by a shadowy wolf, entered the gates.

Rickon Stark rode the horse, but lashed across the saddle’s pommel was draped the bound form of Dickon Tarly. Somewhere, a lady screamed, perhaps fearing him dead, but Davos saw that he was very alive, particularly once Stark unceremoniously dumped him to the cobblestones and dismounted. The younger man’s face was set in a mask of fury. Tarly’s face, however, was harder to decipher, swelling as it was with dark bruises.

“Lord Stark, what is the meaning of this?” the king demanded as Shireen hurried forward with a gasp toward Dickon where he sprawled on the ground.

“Your Grace, this _guest_ of yours was trying to butcher my people,” he snarled, while the wolf paced behind him.

“Treasonous bastard,” Dickon said, spitting a mouthful of blood as he sat up, working at his bonds. “I was trying to catch the bitch that you let escape.”

“But you could not find her, could you, noble ser?” Rickon snapped in reply, disdain in every syllable. “So you were going to take it out on anyone you found. You damn near killed that woman, you damned coward. And you burned her house to the ground with your fool ideas of justice, trying to smoke out your quarry. You’re a child playing with toys, and these are _my_ lands and people, not yours.” He lashed out with a booted foot, knocking Tarly to the ground once again as he attempted to rise.

“Enough, Lord Stark.” The king gestured to a member of the kingsguard to step forward and haul Dickon to his feet, cutting his rough bonds. Stark bowed roughly.

“Your Grace, I beg your forgiveness. But I could not allow him to run free on my lands, harming my people.”

“He was pursuing a traitor who thought to kill my daughter, Stark,” the king said, his voice as cold as ice.

“A woman who thought of it, but did not. Your daughter can tell you herself that the woman never loosed an arrow or made an attempt on her life. She was threatened, it is true. I take the blame for allowing to happen on my lands, but butchering the once free folk in numbers will do nothing to protect her, Your Grace. Not the least of which from this great fool, who would murder children,” he added, pointing a finger at Dickon Tarly.

“Children? What were you thinking, ser?” It was Shireen’s voice then, and her disgust toward the Lord of Horn Hill was palpable. His eyes shone with passionate conviction in the light of the torches that ringed the courtyard, and he pleaded with her.

“I thought only of you, princess, and your safety. I did all that I could to catch the woman, and any who aided her. You must see, Shireen, this is why you must let me make these decisions for you. As a woman, no one would expect you to countenance what must happen in times of war. A Queen’s role is different, more sacred. I could never let you…”

The slap echoed loudly across the courtyard, and all were shocked to silence, particularly Dickon Tarly, and if that broken nose did not hurt before, Davos judged, it certainly did now. Shireen stared down the man who had been speaking until that moment, wiping her hand clean of his blood and sweat on her cloak with a look of disgust.

“I do not think I could ever let _you_ continue that sentence, Lord Tarly. So be silent.” She turned away and looked to Rickon.

“You know by name the woman who threatened me today,” she said. “You will find her, and you will send her to the Wall. Lord Commander Snow still keeps an all-female garrison, the Masked Sisters, at Queensgate. She will join them. You will join us when we leave for the wall, and bring her yourself, in fact.” Rickon nearly hesitated, but he bowed before her.

“As you will, princess.”

“I do.” She turned to her father. “The Wall is for all criminals, even the very worst. Will this be acceptable over her head on a pike?” Stannis did not seem particularly pleased, but then, he never did. He assented with a brief nod.

“As you say, even the worst criminals may be sent to the Wall for their crimes. I am content.”

*****

“He _really_ deserved to be slapped,” piped up a sleepy voice.

“Undoubtedly.”

*****

Even in the depth of summer, the Wall was frigid and unyielding, and snow swirled in the air. Davos could only be grateful that it was warm compared to what he had known during the wars upon bringing Rickon back to win the north to Stannis. This was nothing, to that, but still brisk, and yet bracingly refreshing after the stifling heat of fires, food and bodies gathered together to feast, not to mention the flowing wine. Lord Commander Snow had welcomed King Stannis as the friend he was, and though the occasion was solemn, as honors were heaped on Snow and the entire Watch, it was also a time of revelry, as those who remembered the wars celebrated surviving them. 

He shrugged his fur-lined cloak more closely about himself and stepped out into the snowy courtyard, the chill prickling his face. He breathed deep, and then stopped short. Across the way, standing in the falling snow, stood the princess and Rickon Stark. She was draped in her heavy red cloak from head to toe, and he wore furs, nearly as black as the wolf that normally never left his side, though Davos had seen the beast gamboling with its snow-white brother, and suspected they were nowhere near. It reminded him strikingly of how he had found them in the Winterfell godswood, though this time, neither seemed angry, nor amused. The spoke quietly, breath frosting the air, and snow swirling around their heads.

“It has been good to see Jon again. He does not visit often. He can’t, as Lord Commander,” he said wistfully.

“It brings back strange memories to be here,” she said softly. “I was so frightened, then. And now, it feels very distant.”

“It is. It was a long time ago. I remember a little. Less than you, even, probably. I suppose I am lucky, that way. I think about now, more than then. There will be a time when people won’t remember what happened, and think it was all magic and myth. Someone will need to remember enough to remind them,” he said, shaking his head.

“That will be my job. I will be queen, someday. I won’t let them forget.” She lifted her chin, staring into his eyes. They were of a similar height, and if she pulled herself up fully on her heeled boots, she almost seemed taller. He only smiled ruefully.

“I don’t doubt you.”

“Lord Stark, will you come back to King’s Landing with us, if I ask it?” she said suddenly. The boy looked gobsmacked, shaking his head from side to side like a confused animal.

“Why would you think of _me_ in King’s Landing? I hardly think I should fit amongst your court folk…” Shireen smiled at the thought.

“I think that is precisely why I would like you to come back with us. Well, at least in part. I might need you again, you know,” she said quietly.

“You didn’t need me to save your life. You told her what she needed to hear, and you don’t need me to deal with Dickon. You slapped the thoughts out of his head, and Maester Samwell has been cramming the good ones right back into him, I think.” They both laughed a little at that, and finally Shireen sighed.

“You’re right. I do not need you, in truth. But I think I might want you there, all the same. Lord Davos is the man my father relies upon to tell him the truth, always. You may be the only person, besides him, who has done the same for me in the time I have known you,” she explained.

“You want me to be your _Hand_?” he asked, his voice incredulous. She shook her head briskly.

“No, no. Well. Not exactly. I just… Oh, come to King’s Landing, will you? Father is king. Davos is his Hand. We don’t have to be anything, yet, but I want you to come in any case. We can see what happens,” she said finally.

“Besides, I want to see Shaggy at court. It would be wonderful to see all those ridiculous courtiers running for their lives a time or two,” she added, grinning. He matched her expression, a crooked smile on his face.

“That might be worth it.”

Davos found himself entirely pleased, and it wasn’t all to be blamed on the wine.

*****

In the morning, Septa Neryssa was nearly frantic. She had fallen asleep in her chair outside the children’s room, only to rise before dawn and find that three of the little hellions had somehow slipped past her in the night. Prowling around the keep to the rhythmic sound of rainfall, she crept up to the lord’s reading chamber, calling out softly for the children, trying to find their hiding place, only to see the door slightly ajar. Sending up a prayer to all seven gods – and any others who might be listening, pragmatic as she was – she gently, slowly pushed open the door.

Inside, the lord was fast asleep, head thrown back in his chair, with little Dalla and Alys curled up on his lap, one head on each of his shoulders, and roguish Rolland sleeping on the desk, his head in his hands. She laughed softly to herself, slipped out, and closed the door.


End file.
